An unlikely duo embarks on a road trip to find a serial killer before the apocalypse in this prize-winning Japanese murder mystery. Perfectly blends the dystopian humor of Zombieland and the thrills of My Sister the Serial Killer ! From Japan’s most exciting new crime writer Akane Araki, this thrillingly funny, high-concept murder mystery follows a young woman and her driving instructor as they face a compelling moral dilemma: should they work to stop a serial killer before the end of the world? A meteor is on a collision course with Earth. The entire human race has 3 months to live. Uncontrollable panic has set in across the globe, but 23-year-old Haru is still determined to finally get her driver’s license. When Haru and her ex-cop driving instructor Isagawa open their car trunk one day to find the corpse of a murder victim inside, they feel duty-bound to investigate. Together, they set off on a road trip through the crumbling landcape around them to hunt for the killer. As more bodies start appearing, more questions surge. Why would a serial killer begin work 3 months before the end of the world? And does justice lose its meaning with humanity on the brink of extinction? Quirky, fast-paced, and packed full of surprising heart, Murder at the End of the World will delight fans of Stuart Turton’s audacious plots and the humorous, life-affirming bent of dystopian favorites like Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead . "I unreservedly loved this book! Great characters, lots of twists and turns, and touches of humour that stop the unique setting—Japan, two months before the end of the world—becoming maudlin. Masterfully executed and highly recommended, particularly for anyone about to take their driving test..." —Fiona Leitch, author of A Cornish Seaside Murder Akane Araki was born in 1998 in Fukuoka, Japan. She is a graduate of Kyushu University's School of Letters. Murder at the End of the World is her first novel, and it won the prestigious Edogawa Rampo Prize. Jesse Kirkwood is a literary translator working from Japanese into English. The recipient of the 2020 Harvill Secker Young Translators' Prize, his translations include The Man Who Died Seven Times by Yasuhiko Nishizawa, The Noh Mask Murder by Akimitsu Takagi and She Walks at Night by Seishi Yokomizo, all available from Pushkin Vertigo. It was just after eight o’clock when the snow finally let up, and now the first patches of blue were showing through the clouds. The droplets on the windscreen shimmered in the morning light. Slowly but surely, the sky was clearing. Snow and rain were my mortal enemies. Last Friday, the Ursid meteor shower had hit its peak, and with it being a new moon, conditions had been perfect—until a thick layer of nimbostratus flattened the pre-dawn sky into a murky grey. Still, if this weather held, I might finally get another chance to observe the winter stars. There was a jangle of cheap metal by my ear. Isagawa had leaned over from the passenger seat and was shaking the car key right by my face. “Come on, then. Fire her up.” The key for training car number thirty-two came, like that of all the other cars, with a ridiculously oversized keyring—a sort of monkey character with garish pink fur and bulging eyes. For the mascot of a driving school, it was a pretty wild design, and not cute in the least. I finished adjusting the rear-view mirror and gingerly took the key, taking care not to make contact with Isagawa’s hand. “I have a soft spot for the mountains, you know,” she said abruptly. “I was in the mountaineering club at high school. There were only three of us, mind.” “I thought you did judo.” “Well remembered. Yeah, judo was my thing, really. I only signed up for mountaineering to fill out the numbers.” Isagawa kept up a steady stream of chatter while I fumbled through my pre-drive safety checks. It wasn’t hard to guess why she’d mentioned mountains. This was day thirteen of stage two of the standard driving licence course, which meant I’d be learning how to drive on mountain roads. “How about you?” she went on. “You into hiking? I guess the main places groups head to around here are Mount Homan or Mount Hiko.” “Not really my thing.” “Let me guess. You’re not the field trip type.” “Uh, yeah, I guess not.” “I wasn’t either. Where’s the fun in tramping about in a big group like that? Hiking for pleasure’s different, though. You get to pick your own route, go at your own pace…” I let her words wash over me, only half listening as I slid the key into the ignition and turned it. Our seats shook; the speedometer jumped. I’d never really cared much for cars, or driving, but this part I liked. The feeling that, all of a sudden, you were breathing life into an inanimate object. I released the handbrake and slipped the gear into drive. Without me even touching the accelerator, the car began to edge forward. Idle creep, they call it. A feature of most cars with automatic transmission. I steered us